The Back Fence, 4 PM
The shadow of the feeder dangles slant from today’s gold dwindling scaffold. Winged jots record, on radiant boards, birds fanning and declining to the feeder. Smoke suspended in dense shining, text like oblong litter; and the reader thinks leaves walk like tittles on strange scripture. Sees the letters move like trees. The post The Back Fence, 4 PM appeared
